


Be the Colors of the Mad and the Wicked

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Happy Ending, Humiliation, Idiots in Love, Isolation, M/M, One-Sided Temple/Biff, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Soulmarks mean that you care about someone, and that someone cares about you.Born without a soulmark, Grif does not care about anyone or anything.It doesn't bother him - after all, if you can't care enough for it to matter, you don't give a shit.But with time (and a maroon teammate) it becomes harder not to try to care.





	Be the Colors of the Mad and the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creatrixanimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/gifts).



“One day you’ll wish you were as messed up as your brother,” mom tells them one night on the couch, after Kai once again has proudly showed off her soulmark, asking again what color it is. “You just have to be old enough, then you’ll learn your brother was lucky to have a defect.”

Dexter doesn’t really care too much about her harsh words. He knows that tomorrow, and all the days to come, Kai will be told of how special and important and necessary soulmarks are. It’s all they’ll talk about in school, they’ll show each other their pitch-black marks, testing if their touch is enough for the color to appear.

Kai’s mark is placed perfectly on her left elbow. Right in the middle of it, big enough to touch both her upper and lower arm. It’s round, so symmetric, it seems like irony that Dexter is her brother.

Today, after she’d let Dexter comb her hair, his hand had strayed the pitch-black spot, and orange streaks had appeared in it, as if someone had dropped a can of paint and drops had sprayed in her direction.

Dexter isn’t surprised that the bond happens – not logically, at least. He can’t remember a time without Kai, and despite her annoyances, she’s the most important thing he has. He’s happy to see his color on her.

He just hasn’t expected it. With no soulmark of his own, he hasn’t counted on leaving his mark on others.

But the color is right there – orange and bright, and Kai won’t stop talking about it. She can’t keep track of colors, and she is told over and over that it is orange.

“Like the sun?” she asks.

“More like sunset, I guess,” he answers and looks at all the black around the orange color.

Kai still has a lot of space to fill, and he is happy that so many people will come to leave their mark on her, that so many bright colors will end up decorating her soulmark.

And then again-

He supposes it’s natural for siblings to be jealous of each other.

* * *

“You are lucky,” mom says into his hair an evening, playing with his mallen streak, when he’s stayed up long enough to watch the movies Kai aren’t allowed to see yet. “And special. I wish I were you.”

“Why?” he asks, because no one has been jealous of him before. That new teacher at school, Missus Whatshername with the big smile and red cheeks had whispered to him yesterday not to worry, that she was sure a mark would grow on him eventually.

“You can’t get hurt.” Mom’s hands are pleasantly hot on his arms as he leans against her, sharing the couch for a peaceful evening. It feels nice, nights like these where they got her entire attention, all her kisses and hugs. “And one day people will be so jealous of that. And you won’t be having that frown any longer.”

Mom has always said that age makes her smart, and Dexter chooses to believe her every word.

“Don’t let them get to you,” she tells him. “You see, even freaks get the best job at the circus.” Her words are followed by a hollow laughter that Dexter chooses to ignore.

* * *

In one of Kai’s cartoons, there’s a princess that bonds with every person in the world. Her soulmark spreads to cover her entire body, she becomes a beautiful mess of all possible colors, she earns her name Princess Rainbow.

The villain has a soulmark, too. But it’s unfilled, pitch-black. And along with is bitterness, it keeps growing – the spot reaching out like tentacles across his face and limbs.

Mr. Lone says he doesn’t need any soulmates, but when Princess Rainbow touches his mark, they bond. His black is filled with pink glitter, and he leaves his color on her – black, surprisingly, but with a change. A beautiful glitter, like the sky at nighttime.

Dexter doesn’t have a soulmark, and there is no word to describe what he is.

Maybe, until he is drafted, and the UNSC Officer nods at his files, reading that little extra note about his ‘condition’, and he calls him a sociopath.

It makes sense, in the most awful way. Soulmarks means you care about someone, that someone care about you.

Private Grif doesn’t have a soulmark. He can’t care. He doesn’t care enough to care.

He’s a strange individual. There is something wrong about him, he is defective, a mistake. Like his own mallen streak, standing out in the middle of the black hair, a flaw.

But the UNSC seems to want exactly that.

“You can’t feel remorse, can you?” the Officer says. “Makes your screwed-up brain perfect for killing.”

Something twists in Grif’s gut, but he doesn’t say anything. He hates the army life already.

It doesn’t help when one of his fellow Privates whispers, “I think you’re lucky. I’ve heard soulmarks hurt like hell if the other one dies. The bond and all that. ”

It doesn’t make him feel better at all.

Despite the lack of soulmarks, it doesn’t make him a good killer. Grif doesn’t know if it has anything to do with remorse, because he never manages to actually kill someone. You need a good aim to do that, actual fighting skills.

And Grif lacks those, too.

That’s what happens when you care too little about everything and everyone.

So he ends up in Blood Gulch.

He hates everyone immediately, and everyone hates him.

“Numbnuts,” Sarge says when he is asked about non-existing intel about a so-called mission that Grif has never heard of yet.

“Fatass,” Simmons says when he trips after Sarge has thrown a grenade after him.

The only good thing about Red Team is that nobody talks about soulmarks because no one wants a bond with each other.

* * *

And then Donut appears.

* * *

Donut’s soulmark is on his face. His chin, to be exact, but stretching towards his right cheek. It looks as if someone slapped him and left a black void behind.

Sarge’s soulmark is on his upper arm, Grif finds out, one day he is unlucky enough to watch Sarge dig a bullet out of his limb without flinching. Sarge is a very strange man, Grif decides.

Simmons’ mark is on his knee. The right one. Grif catches a glimpse of it when Simmons’ switches to nightwear, his boxes barely long enough to cover it.

So the day he wakes up and is told he now has Simmons’ limbs, he freaks out. Mainly because this shouldn’t be physically possible, but also because, well, Simmons’ soulmark is on his knee.

Grif has always wanted a soulmark, but not like this.

In a moment of panic, Grif sits up – and then faints when the ceiling suddenly tilts.

“Idiot,” Simmons tells him when he wakes up. “You are still pumped full of painkillers.”

“Oh,” Grif says and stares.

Maybe he stares too much, because Simmons suddenly blushes, turning his head away while shifting in his seat. His hands reach down, as if to cover his new metal leg in shame.

Grif exhales deeply when he sees it’s only the left one that has been replaced. The soulmark is still there.

Simmons might be an asshole, but there are some bad things he doesn’t deserve. Losing a soulmark is one of them.

But he should have seen it coming – Simmons is too smart to give up that much for Grif.

“I, uh… We didn’t see your soulmark. During the surgery,” Simmons says, coughing awkwardly between every word. “I don’t want to nag, it’s just- Your left parts were very gross. And damaged. So maybe-“

“Nah, you didn’t remove it,” Grif says and regrets the sentence a second later.

He answered out of impulse, wanting to laugh because the idea is so surreal after a life longing for one. It’s a bitter response, but Simmons doesn’t sense that.

In hindsight, he wishes he had gone with the excuse. That he lost his soulmark in a tank accident, boohoo, poor soul.

“Oh,” Simmons says. “Good.”

But now they are all wondering where his mark is, and Grif curses his own stupidity.

* * *

No one asks him directly. Because soulmarks are linked to emotions, and emotions are banned on Red Team.

But he can feel Donut’s stare in the shower, and Simmons’ eyes when they prepare for bed.

Sarge, at least, doesn’t seem to care.

Unfortunately to all of Red Team’s mental health, the bonding happens whether they want to or not. It’s a strange set of actions, unplanned and unexpected, and no one talks about it, as if verbalizing the facts will make them more real, more horrible, and truly weird.

* * *

Sarge’s hand lands on Simmons’ knee after thanking him for shooting Grif in the back just as told.

Simmons stiffens and begins to cry tears of joy. Sarge’s expression is hard to read, and he hurries out of the room before Grif can even make an attempt.

* * *

Simmons helps Sarge stand up after the Blues’ sniper attack.

Sarge doesn’t thank him but makes a weird choking noise instead. He doesn’t cry, though, thankfully.

* * *

Donut squeezes Simmons’ knee during a spiteful joke.

Simmons shoves Donut’s face away as he leans over his shoulder to spy on the journal entry he is writing, and as he fingers brush against the soulmark, Donut squeals.

* * *

Sarge shows Simmons how to tackle a Blue. Donut is all about roleplaying and he doesn’t hesitate to play Church, but he breaks the role to scream in joy when Sarge grabs his chin – and then scream for real as he is thrown to the floor.

Donut says Sarge is a silver fox and reaches out to squeeze bicep. Sarge freezes and the pulls away, saying that he will be nothing but red.

* * *

Grif, surprisingly, bonds with them too. At least, it’s a half-way process. He leaves his color on them, a bright orange like it was the case with Kai.

It happens with Donut first. Mainly out of spite.

The pink soldier has been trying to find his mark for too long, and eventually he decides to use a different approach.

“Hit me,” he says, sticking his chin out.

“Uuuh,” Grif says, reaching for his cereal.

Donut just takes a step closer. “C’mon,” he says. “I know you want to. Gimme a big ol’ slap, and I’ll return the favor.”

“Fuck off, Donut,” Grif says, groaning. He still remembers the time Donut had a theory that Grif’s soulmark was placed on his ass – and proceeded to test it by slapping said spot.

“Pleaaaaaase,” Donut begs. “I really won’t mind! Playing rough has never scared me of before.”

Grif considers. It’s not because he is desperate to test if he can have a bond with Donut. He doesn’t care about him. He can’t care about him.

In fact, he only finds him annoying.

His loud voice, his makeup lying _everywhere_ , the constant innuendos, the way he won’t leave him alone, his soulmark – right there, big and in the middle of his face, as if showing it off to the world, constantly reminding Grif of what he has and what Grif can’t have-

He can’t miss this chance to get just a little satisfaction.

The slap seems to echo in the room, and Grif must have used more force than he intended to.

But Donut is smiling brightly, as if it didn’t hurt, and he pulls up a handheld mirror from seemingly out of nowhere, admiring the orange color on his swollen chin.

* * *

One morning he pushes Sarge away after another daily threat. He thinks nothing of it until the day he catches a glimpse of the orange on Sarge’s arm.

* * *

He isn’t awake when he leaves his color on Simmons.

Instead, he is lying in his bed, having collapsed in the wrong side of room.

“Get up, fatass,” Simmons demands and slaps the back of his head. Without moving, Grif continues to snore.

Simmons’ flare his nostrils in anger. “I won’t sleep in your bed,” he says with his hands on his hips. “I’ve seen the stains on your sheet, and, urgh-“ He retches at the thought. “Fucking move.”

But Grif doesn’t move.

He is too tired, too exhausted and sore. And he is very stubborn, especially regarding Simmons.

But Simmons, too, is stubborn. “Fuck you,” he says, forcing his way into his own bed. Due to lack of space, he ends up squeezed between Grif and the wall.

He inhales deeply, but says nothing.

Grif feels the extra warmth in his semi-conscious state of mind. It’s nice, pleasant.

As he scoots close to the source of the warmth, his hand ends on Simmons’ knee, the one that is still made of out flesh.

Simmons’ breathing stutters for a second and he remains quiet.

* * *

They bond with the Blues, too. It’s a surprise and horror, all in one.

Luckily, it’s Sarge that receives the splash of color first. A bright blue matching Caboose’s armor.

Slowly, they all begins to have blue and aqua streaks in their marks.

No cobalt color.

They get the explanation for that the day they lose Church, anyway. AI’s (or ghosts) don’t bond. Probably the reason why no one has bonded with Lopez, either.

No one asks out loud why they haven’t fully bonded with Grif, either.

* * *

Simmons discovers the truth while threatening to change his gender. It’s an awkward scene.

“You’re lying. You don’t have that sort of power.”

“Shut up, it’s called a technical touch, and yes, I have that. Just hold the fucking papers.”

Grif doesn’t dare to let go of the impressive pile of paper, even though it is tempting, just to hear Simmons howl in frustration. “You’re bluffing.”

“No, I’m not.” The mouse clicks a few times, and the screen changes. “Look, this is your file. This is your name, this is your birthplace, this is your location of soulmark…”

He trails off.

Grif drops all the paper, and Simmons doesn’t even squeal. He doesn’t make a sound.

His glance is piercing through the visor, and Grif sets his jaw, remembering how the word sociopath was thrown at him the last time someone read his files.

“I, uh… I didn’t know that,” Simmons says and leans towards the screen to check if he read it right. “I mean, I didn’t know that was a thing. Is- Are you alright?”

“Probably?” Grif shrugs. “It’s not anything new.”

“But- but this isn’t how brain works. Or how humans work. How do you not have a soulmark?”

He turns to him, as if Grif can answer that question. As if he hasn’t spent his entire life wondering about the same thing.

“Aren’t you supposed to enter the Blues files?” he sneers. “Weren’t we in a hurry?”

“You dropped the papers,” Simmons mutters under his breath, but turns to the screen again. “This isn’t right,” he says before shutting down Grif’s files.

“Yeah, well, I’m not in charge of it.” He watches as Simmons begins to type with an impressive speed. He swallows, feeling his throat burn. Without looking at Simmons, he says, “Don’t tell the others.”

There’s a pause.

“I wasn’t going to,” Simmons then tells him before continuing to type.

* * *

“Doesn’t it feel… strange?” Simmons asks him as they rest in the snow.

Grif’s heart is still pounding like crazy after his fall, and the snow is red from Agent Washington’s blood. But the Blues – the remaining ones – are tending to him, so Grif isn’t worried.

Not that he cares about the Agent. First of all; he can’t. Second of all; he won’t. The guy killed Donut and almost Simmons, too.

His luck hit him once again – he doesn’t have any soulmarks, and so he didn’t get to feel the pain of Donut’s death. How lucky.

Sidewinder is cold, and Grif is suddenly shivering. “Nah. It’s life. And if you don’t care enough, you don’t get to give a shit. And I can’t care enough, apparently, so…”

“But- but you _do_ care. I- not like that, but- you- My soulmark,” Simmons points out through a series of stutters.

Grif hunches his shoulder. “Doesn’t count.”

“It’s a halfway bond. Of course it counts. If you didn’t care, it wouldn’t work.”

They hear the cold wind howl, snow flying as its caught by it.

“Since when do anyone on Red Team care? Isn’t it against the protocol?” Grif finally says. At least he has stopped trembling.

“We don’t.” Simmons turn to look at him. “So you fit right in.”

Silently, Grif reaches out to touch his knee, the right one, and he hopes it can be felt through the armor. He still doesn’t know exactly how the marks work. He doesn’t have enough experience to know.

“…I once had an uncle who didn’t have a pinkie,” Simmons suddenly says to fill the silence.

Grif isn’t sure why, but he ends up doubled over in laughter.

* * *

When they crash on Chorus, Simmons gets a concussion.

It’s a pain to deal with, which is why Sarge instructs Grif to deal with it.

“Mrgif,” Simmons mumbles against his pillow.

“Right.”

The green eyes open, staring up at him. “S’not what I said,” he insists, voice still slurring, but at least he seems more awake. “Mark.”

“My name is Dexter.”

“I know,” Simmons whines and groans when the headache flares up. It’s like watching a child about to cry over a scraped knee.

Except the knee is in fact a bruised head.

The knee is fine, luckily. Grif reaches out to touch it, and he watches with interest how it makes Simmons relax immediately. His shoulders sag, the frown disappears. He looks up at him with widened, interested eyes. There’s a soft look in them, softer than usual.

It freaks Grif out, just a little bit.

“We’re gunna find your mark,” Simmons says without blinking. “It’s there. Hiding.”

“Sure thing, Simmons.” As he looks away, the mallen streak falls in front of his face. He tucks it behind his ear with an annoyed huff.

“Hey.”

Simmons’ voice is so gentle, he can’t help but turn to meet his dazed glance.

A long, thin finger reaches for him, coming closer until it’s pressed against his nose. “There,” Simmons declares.

“That’s not my mark, Dick.”

“Your eyes are very dark,” Simmons says. “They’re nice.”

Grif squeezes his knee again.

Smiling, Simmons grabs his hand. His finger traces circles against his palm, and Grif knows it’s supposed to make him feel better.

It works. Almost.

“Can pupils be soulmarks?” Simmons asks as Grif lies down next to him.

It’s an interesting thought. A horrifying one, too.

“You are not touching my eye,” Grif says, too late.

It doesn’t work, and Simmons is the one with the most disappointed expression.

* * *

The job of being a Captain is dirty work. Not just the whole guilt-trip over killing literal teenagers, but the actual dirt and grim and blood that cling to them after a mission. It didn’t even make sense – their armor is supposed to protect them from all that, and yet it keeps making its way through the cracks. They earn bruises, too, skin clinging to the armor plates as he pulls them off.

“Ow,” he says, watching the scrape on his knee with a grim fascination.

“If you’d stop falling on your fat ass, you wouldn’t end up black and blue,” Simmons snorts dryly. None of them are unaware of the bruises covering his right knee. The left, of course, is shiny and metal and safe from harm.

He then winces, realizing his is covered with speckles of dust, mixing with his freckles. A handkerchief across his cheeks only smudges it further.

“You have something there,” Grif says, tapping his own chin and relishing in the annoyance in Simmons’ expression.

He lets it last a minute where Simmons furiously wipes his face. “Stop laughing.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t even care that you have blood all over your hair.”

“Oh?”

Grif tentatively reaches for his long curls, grasping his mallen streak, knowing he should have cut it all a long time ago. The stubbles on his chin and cheeks are too long as well. Being a Captain makes everything too tiring, he falls asleep when he can. Which isn’t often. Kimball always has something she wants them to do.

Simmons has complained about his smell and hair and beard lately, and even threatened to shove him in the radioactive lake out of desperation, but no action has been taken. Yet.

“It’s not yours,” Simmons adds lowly, as to calm him. “It’s… behind your ear. No, more to the left. Not there. Bit higher. Well, it’s everywhere.”

“We should just cut it off,” Grif grunts when his fingers end up tangled into the mess.

“Do you hate baths that much?” A moment later he can feel Simmons’ breath against his neck, fingers brushing against his skin as they make their way to his black hair.

Grif shivers.

“When was the last time you took a shower?” Simmons asks him grumpily as he struggles with the knots of hair. “It’s so damn dirty, it feels wet-“

He cuts himself off.

At the same time, Grif’s entire body jerks as the cold sensation surges through him. For a moment he’s sure Simmons had just cracked an egg on top of his egg, that’s how it feels – something cold running down the sides of his skulls, making the hair on his arms stand up straight.

“What?” he asks, because he hears how Simmons has pulled himself away with a gasp. “Wait- is it- is it my blood? Simmons, is there a hole in my fucking skull right now?”

“No. _No_. You’re fine. You’re… I’ve never heard of this before.”

“ _What_?” Grif says again, more demanding this time, because now his head feels warm, like hot blood embracing his scalp, but more pleasant, comforting.

Simmons is still struggling to find words, and so Grif leaves his bed, pushing himself up with a grunt, to stand before the mirror.

They are both silent as he stares at his reflection.

“Simmons,” he finally says, “why is my hair maroon?”

* * *

It’s too easy to keep it a secret. The helmet covers it, and in wartime they can never afford to take it off.

Except in their shared bedroom where Simmons is, apparently, trying to pull it out by the root.

“Ow,” Grif says while a hand keeps him still in the chair. The brush gets stuck in the curls again, but Simmons is unforgiving. “ _Ow_ ,” Grif repeats with more emphasis this time.

“If you’d just brushed your hair _once_ in your life,” Simmons huffs in response.

Despite the pain, Grif can’t say that he _doesn’t_ enjoy Simmons’ fingers against his skull. His touch, even with his metal, always seems to warm, especially when he brushes against the maroon stripes that are now decorating his long, black hair.

“I don’t think you can add more color by pulling it,” Grif grumbles.

The blackness is broken by the maroon streaks. It reminds him of the spotlights back in the circus, how the colorful beams would bounce around.

Now, knowing what his hair is, he realizes he’s been carrying around a bond the entire time. The mallen streak, the off-colored lock of hair that he’s had as long as he can remember – it’s not blonde. It’s a light yellow.

Like Kai’s armor.

He imagines a tiny baby hand reaching for her big brother’s dark hair, and smiles at the thought.

“I’m just trying to stop the birds from making a nest of it.”

Grif isn’t sure if this is how people have felt their entire life with their soulmarks, a tender connection just waiting for that touch, an invisible hug, like a warm blanket being wrapped around you. It’s safe and pleasant and calming and intimate in a way that Grif doesn’t quite know how to react to.

Maybe it’s something you have to get used to. A habit of sort.

It’s not that Grif hates the sensation. It’s so nice that leaves Grif with a sense of longing, almost causing him to _beg_ Simmons to, please, touch his hair. That’s new. And pathetic. Soulmarks are weirder than Grif has expected.

“You should let the others try,” Simmons says when he’s finished his braid.

Grif rests his hand on Simmons’ knee, giving it a squeeze. He can feel the mark respond to it, just a slightly tingle in his palm, but now he knows the warmth he must be giving Simmons right now.

“I’m gonna end up with circus hair,” Grif says and thinks about the way it might be fitting and ironic in its own way.

He doesn’t think about the way the whole bonding process can take place.

* * *

Subtle is the way to go, but subtle isn’t the way of Red Team.

One second – one split second where he has to take off his helmet to shove the gum in his mouth – and Donut _shrieks_.

“Griii _iiiiif_! Oh _my_ , what _have_ you done to your _hair_ – it’s _marvelous_!”

Every face of every soldier in the united armies turn to look at Grif. At least, that’s what it feels like.

He quickly tightens the straps, keeping his helmet locked in place, and hurries off when he can see the pink soldier make beeline in his direction.

Despite his attempts to hurry, Grif is too late.

Donut is, despite everything, smart enough to figure it out.

“Oh,” he gasps, slapping his hands against his own face, palm pressed against his soulmark. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Grif runs.

* * *

“Take it off,” Donut demands, standing behind Grif and pulling at his helmet. When it doesn’t budge, he begins hitting it instead. The smacks echo inside of it and Grif winces. “Dexter Grif, take it off right now-!”

“That’s not how it works, Donut!” Grif says and tries to feel less like an abused bongo drum.

“That’s _exactly_ how it works!” Donut says and adds an offended huff. “Now, are you going to do this yourself, or do I have to use my own two good hands and my best lube to get it off your head?”

“…What am I walking into?” Wash asked weakly, standing in the doorway of the cafeteria.

Donut lets go of him, only for a second, to shove an elbow into Grif’s stomach. As the air leaves Grif’s lungs, Donut jumps towards the Agent to spread the news. “Grif found his soulmark!”

“Oh,” Wash says. “I thought… Well- That’s very great to hear! So why are you-“

“He won’t bond with me! And I’ve been carrying a part of him around for so long, it isn’t fair if I don’t get to rub off on him too!”

At this point Grif is trying to leap from his seat, but Donut is surprisingly strong – using one hand to keep him down, and the other to grasp his helmet.

“I don’t think this is something that should be forced, Donut.” The Freelancer is watching them both carefully, but he doesn’t come any closer.

Even from the distance between the table and the doorway, Grif can see the soulmark on Wash’s neck. It stretches around it like a collar. Grif is pretty sure that the only reason why the bright red color is there is because Sarge tried to choke him once. He imagines that must have been a pretty awkward threat for both of them.

There are streaks of pink too, and a part of Grif really wants to know how a bonding can take place after taking a shot to the chest. In many ways, Donut does not make sense to him.

The cruel thing is that Wash has more experience when it comes to pink color in soulmarks than Grif, and yet he doesn’t step in to help him.

“Aha!” Donut squeals as he pulls the helmet off.

Grif isn’t allowed to leave before he has neatly braided hair and pink streaks.

* * *

“I have pink hair,” Grif says in horror, standing in front of the mirror.

“And maroon,” Simmons reminds him, as if he can forget the fact.

“I look like a teen girl’s emo phase.”

* * *

The rumor spreads quickly after that.

Tucker knocks on their door in the evening, saying that he needs to see Grif because all of Armonia is talking about his new hairstyle.

“I put my bet on a Mohawk,” Tucker says and step inside to take a better look.

The look involves digging his finger into the hair as well.

* * *

The bond with Caboose is too fast to stop.

“Pretty,” Caboose says during dinner, looking at the strips in Grif’s hair the same way a cat admires a Christmas ball. His eyes widen.

“No,” Grif says.

He pulls his head back too slowly – Caboose’s hands grip all the hair in reach, and the bright blue color spreads like wildfire.

* * *

They both know it isn’t exactly required. But Sarge has been carrying the orange color for years now, and the whole thing is first complete when Grif gets red stripes.

They both know this without saying it out loud, and through silence they come to the decision that it’s best to just get it over with. Even that process is quiet, mostly consisting by narrowed glares through the various rooms.

“Hngf,” Sarge huffs.

“Sure,” Grif says.

And then they walk in opposite directions.

It stays like this for a few days, the glaring and the huffing, until finally, Sarge wants to make it quick and painless.

At least, painless for Sarge.

“Ow,” Grif says when his hair is pulled hard enough for him to hear his own neck crack through Sarge’s cackling.

The headache lasts for days but the lingering warmth – pleasant but strong, like sitting in front of a campfire – dulls the pain.

* * *

The bond with Wash isn’t supposed to happen. Grif doesn’t see it coming.

But then again, he doesn’t expect the panic attack either.

It isn’t logical. Most of their lives have avoided logic – otherwise they won’t be standing here – but unlike Simmons, Grif doesn’t complain about it. He just rolls with it.

It’s two days after the attack on Charon, and Church is dead, and the others are in the hospital, recovering, and Grif is in the hallway, alive and a little bruise, and they are all going to live, and Simmons is going to be fine, and Grif has just been told this, and he is supposed to be happy, but for some reason he can’t breathe, his throat won’t allow the air to come through and he is wheezing, sputtering-

His arm is around Wash’ shoulders, brushing the side of his neck in the process.

As he is lead into a nearby chair, Grif looks at the Agent’s soulmark. With his blurry vision, the colors all melt together, and he sees so many of them – aqua, red, pink, blue, maroon, but also the many dark spaces, spots where the colors have faded away…

“The others will live,” Grif tells him when he has enough air to form the words.

“I know,” Wash says, fingers brushing against his hair as he helps him sit down.

They both know that Church is dead, too, but they don’t say that out loud.

* * *

He can’t see Simmons in the closet.

It’s too dark, but he can feel everything when Simmons’ hands are all over his body, in his hair, clutching the maroon streaks, finding them through instinct.

Simmons says Grif’s name, and Grif realizes his mother was wrong back then.

Soulmarks are fucking fantastic.

* * *

“Your hair,” Carolina says when he wakes up from the nap. It’s too easy to fall asleep with the grass soft beneath them and the sun pleasantly hot above them. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah, I’m one of the kind,” Grif says without opening his eyes. This whole Relaxation Boot Camp is the best deal he’s ever made. More naps, less stress. And Carolina hasn’t hit him yet. “Always have been.”

It’s better to be known as the guy with strange hair than the soulless freak from before.

“It suits you.”

“Yeah, I guess I fit the whole circus vibe,” Grif says with a snort.

Carolina leans closer to him. “Oh?”

“Long story,” he says and opens his eyes.

The Freelancer is wearing her pajamas, just like he’s told her to. Her red hair is collected in a pony-tail, and her green eyes are warm despite the permanent frown on her forehead.

“Do you think you have the time to tell me it before your afternoon nap?” she asks him, Then she stretches her arms above her head, pulling up her t-shirt by the motion.

It allows Grif to see the skin on her stomach and the colors that decorate it. He sees orange and frowns.

“You don’t remember?” Carolina asks when she notices his puzzled expression. “You weren’t exactly happy when I took the alien gun from you.”

“Oh,” Grif says, and suddenly recalling throwing himself at a fully armed Freelancer. Not his best move, in hindsight.

“You should use your weight to your advantage more often,” Carolina tells him. “You certainly managed to stun me.”

“Yeah, well, the weight isn’t going anywhere.” He sits there for a moment, digging his fingers into the grass and wondering what he can do with this information. What he’s supposed to do next. Carolina, who can kill him in less than two seconds if she wanted to, is waiting for his permission to fulfill the bond.

Grif is pretty sure that he is right to be speechless.

Carolina waits while he figures out what to say. Her face is tilted towards the sun, letting it caress her skin and scars.

“I used to braid my sister’s hair when we were kids,” he finally says, knowing it’s dumb in its own childish way.

“Sounds fun,” Carolina says.

Her hair looks even redder in a braid, neatly resting on her shoulder. Carolina is humming lowly while digging her fingers into Grif’s hair, repaying the favor and leaving aqua streaks behind.

* * *

When the others are gone, Grif doesn’t cut his hair off.

He wants to, however.

The streaks remind him of what he’s chosen to leave, and it gives him a bitter taste in his mouth.

_Circus kid_ , the mirrors scream at him, and Grif lowers his head.

As the days pass, the reflection begins to change – his face becomes a blurry spot, and the colors become brighter, stronger until they are all he sees.

Maroon and red and pink, and the names that follow, echo inside his head as he throws himself onto Simmons’ bed. He inhales deeply, savoring the lingering smell of oil used on Simmons’ metal joints, and reminds himself that at least he can take a nap whenever he wants one.

In his sleep, his fingers clutch the maroon streaks.

And he can feel that somewhere, where he is, Simmons is touching his soulmark, too.

* * *

It is Temple who cuts his hair.

Grif hates it, loathes it with his entire being. It’s like being stripped naked and forced to keep walking while everything you care about is burned down in front of you.

It gives you a reason not to care.

Grif can’t help but think that his mom was right back then. Soulmarks seem great at first, but the thing is that when you care about something, it’ll hurt when you lose it. Before the colorful streaks, he’d been invincible.

Now he is clutching the arms of the chair, staying quiet while Temple uses a razor to deal with the final remains of what has once been his long, colorful hair.

“I don’t…” Temple begins but trails of before he can finish his sentence. He keeps flexing his fingers. “I know this is _bad_ , but- _But_ we were soulmates. Biff and I. I mean, he was the only color I had.”

The mark is somewhere on Temple’s torso, but it’s grown larger, like an tumor, reaching across his face. It’s a faded orange color, sickly looking, almost grey at this point.

Grif doesn’t know the story of Biff, but he is a hundred percent sure that the guy is dead.

“Well, I guess he had other colors – fucking _Georgina_ – but I… Carolina took everything away from me.” The color has faded from the hair on the floor. It’s all black now, and Grif keeps staring at it. Temple pats his cheek. “But at least now she is trying to repay me. About fucking time. I was pretty sure she’d forgotten everything about poor lone me. She probably did. Anyways, who cares about the details – now you are here.”

Grif doesn’t say anything. Mainly because he doesn’t know how to retort without it blowing up in his face, but Temple is doing a great job of talking enough for both of them. It makes the whole thing easier.

The distraction. He’s _distracting_. And he is doing a good job of it.

It’d been so easy. Probably too easy.

But things had gotten out of hand the moment he was pulled from the vent and his helmet had fallen from his head in the process.

Temple had stared at his face for too long before he’d even noticed his hair.

And then he’d been dragged to their spaceship and tied to a chair – which isn’t exactly the way he’d expected things to go, but still it’s a distraction, and that’s still the purpose of his presence.

He has to keep Temple going. Keep him distracted. Keep him away from the others.

Keep the way clear for Locus to bust them out.

So if he has to deal with a broken-hearted crazy asshole, he can do that. Because he needs to that. Because he owes them.

When Temple had put the pieces together and dug his fingers into Grif’s hair, he’d pulled hard enough to make it hurt and he’d promised that everything would make sense.

And when no cobalt color appeared in his hair, Temple’s confusion and Grif’s sense of danger had grown bigger.

Grif hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut, and a half-hearted comment about getting to know each other first, maybe a dinner, probably a dinner, could help things progress, had only made Temple’s anger flare up.

His solution had been to cut off the hair, to start over.

Grif had opened his mouth to protest but he remembered his purpose – the distraction, the _others_ – and he’d played along to do his job.

Now it is too late, he realizes, looking at his hair on the floor.

“It’ll grow out,” Temple promises him, lips pressed to his bald head for the briefest second. “And it’ll be right this time, I’m sure.”

Grif is sure that it won’t.

Temple’s façade cracks further in the following hour, and he leaves Grif alone in the cell as he storms out, cursing and sputtering.

Grif’s palm, forced against his chest, doesn’t bring back the orange color in Temple’s soulmark.

* * *

“Have you seen my helmet?” is the first thing Grif asks Simmons when they are reunited.

Simmons doesn’t say anything. He is standing near the now open cell-door, jaw dropping in horror as he stares at Grif’s bald head.

The helmet is in Simmons’ hands, held carefully and tenderly, and yet Grif has to almost tear it out of his grip when Simmons doesn’t react.

Grif puts it back on and tightens the straps.

Simmons is still silent.

“Are the others here?” Grif asks, leaving the cell without a second glance at the hair on the floor. He’ll never visit a hairdresser again. Not that he visited them much before, but the point still stands.

“Yeah, we’re-“

“Good,” Grif says and doesn’t wait for Simmons to keep up. His skin is still tickling, like when Temple had used the scissors. “There’s an asshole I need to kick.”

* * *

“It’ll grow out,” Simmons tells him.

He says the same sentence every morning when Grif goes to the bathroom, flinching to avoid the sight of his reflection in the mirror.

“Yeah,” Grif answers him with a shrug. “I guess you can’t wait ‘till I don’t look like an egghead.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Simmons twiddles his thumbs, eyes darting around, until he finally pats their shared bed.

Grif never says no to a chance to nap with Simmons. They lie next to each other, close enough for Grif to reach out and rest his hand on his knee, feeling the soulmark grow warm in response. Instinctively, he longs for Simmons to return the favor, but he knows his slim fingers will find no hair to hold, and it’s hard not to grow bitter.

“They’ll grow out,” Simmons mutters.

“Well, if they don’t, it’s not like we haven’t tried it before.”

His fingers dig deeper into Simmons’ knee, and he hopes Temple is rotting in his cell right now.

“ _If_ they don’t grow out,” Simmons says, and their foreheads are touching now, “it won’t be too bad.”

“Better than bald.”

“Better than bald,” Simmons agrees with a faint smile on his lips. “But you didn’t look bad before the-“

“Before the circus hair?”

It’s too difficult not to snort, and Grif is too tired to hide his disdain. The hair had looked stupid. It had been stupid. Soulmarks are stupid and wonderful, and it annoys him that he can’t care _right_.

If he’d just never cared, it wouldn’t have come to this.

But even without the bond, he’s always cared.

Damned emotions are never good for anything but trouble. But, as a true maverick, he can’t deny that troubles can be fun.

“Well, you’re still here,” Simmons tells him. “And I’m still here. So it won’t- it won’t change anything. That’s not how it works.”

“You’re a very smart idiot,” Grif says and breathes against his skin. “And you messed me up. So fuck you.”

“How funny.” Simmons’ smile grows bigger. “I’d say the same about you.”

* * *

“Hey, Grif?” Simmons says one morning. They are still in bed, Grif is half-asleep.

He can feel the tip of Simmons’ fingers against his head, but it’s better now when the skin has been covered with small hair, like down on a young bird, just barely longer than stubble.

He is looking forward to the day he can look at himself in the mirror and not think of Temple’s razor.

“Mmmhm,” he mutters into the pillow, being guided to sleep by Simmons’ touch.

Simmons’ breath is warm against his neck. “They are growing out,” Simmons tells him happily and presses his lips against the maroon spot on the newly grown, bristly hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr post about soulmarks being a black spot and then the reveal that the protagonist's black hair was the mark all along. I'd link it, but I forgot to save it and it's now lost to the depths of hell that is called tumblr.
> 
> Dedicated to my dear creatrixanimi who drew the front page of my bachelor. Thank you so much, søde. No matter what grade it'll get, at least the illustration will be stunning!!
> 
> And also this can be a late Christmas gift to you all. I hope you all had happy holidays.
> 
> Title is from Gorillaz's "Superfast Jellyfish"
> 
> As always: English isn't my native language and you can find me as riathedreamer on tumblr and twitter.


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